


Debriefing

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Consensual Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity Kink, Kink Meme, Multi, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Sloppy Seconds, shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Nanny Ashtoreth is discovered indulging in shameless behaviour.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Other
Comments: 39
Kudos: 406
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Debriefing

Aziraphale has spent half the day absently searching for Crowley in the Dowling's near-empty estate, slowly growing more frustrated by his refusal to make himself available.

Really, it makes perfect sense that just as he's contemplating giving up and retiring for the night, he would run into him, in an almost literal sense, as they pass in the darkened hall. Their arms briefly catch at each other, coming to a slow stop, doors swinging shut as they acknowledge each other's presence.

It takes Aziraphale a second to notice that one of them definitely hasn't retired for the night after all, and that perhaps their meeting wasn't entirely accidental. Because Crowley is still dressed as Nanny Ashtoreth - not only that, his long, narrow skirt has creases in the fabric, as if it's been bunched together and held there, and his lipstick is smeared across the left side of his mouth. He's also missing a wealth of hairpins, and two buttons on his blouse are undone, showing a long slash of collarbone, and the hint of bra strap.

Crowley is perfectly capable of miracling his clothing and make-up into perfect order, and Aziraphale can't help but think that the suggestive state of him is entirely for his benefit. A performance, and an answer to where the demon has been for the last few hours. It's also, Aziraphale thinks, an invitation, an invitation to continue a game they have been playing, on and off, since they found themselves in such close proximity. Where long days of contact will be overlooked, and moments of heated emotion may easily be mistaken for heated arguments. Expected behaviour from such long-standing enemies.

It's a game that, Aziraphale has been embarrassed to discover, he enjoys rather more than is appropriate for an angel. The opportunity to be someone quite unlike himself -

"And where exactly have you been?" Aziraphale says sharply, in a tone he never normally uses with Crowley. He asks the question as if he doesn't already know the answer. "Or should I ask who you've been with, look at the state of you."

Crowley's eyes crinkle behind the glasses, though his mouth remains a stiff line.

"I was occupied," he says thinly, drawing himself to his full height, as if he has nothing to be ashamed of. "With Brahms, the chauffeur."

Aziraphale knows the man perfectly well. A big, square-jawed brute, a head taller than himself, rough of feature and disposition, no manners at all. The thought of Crowley dallying with him, being left in such an obviously dishevelled state, by his no doubt coarse and careless attentions - he finds the thought absolutely intolerable. 

"And is he the reason you no longer appear to be wearing any knickers?" Aziraphale adds, slightly more stiffly.

Crowley makes a shocked, angry sound at his accusation, smoothing long hands down his skirt and glaring at him over the top of his glasses.

"My state of dress is none of your concern, Mr. Fell. And should I be missing anything you would be the last to know."

"Don't lie to me, I can see perfectly well that you're no longer wearing any," he counters. Crowley's ankles are also bare, Aziraphale suspects he was wearing either tights or stockings this morning as well. Heaven knows where they are right now.

"It's none of your business." There's a snap to Crowley's voice now, daring him to comment further.

Aziraphale most certainly dares, he steps closer, catches Crowley's narrow wrist in one hand. He feels the twist of it, and the way he sniffs and tips his head, looks down his nose at him, as if he has any right at all to feel superior. 

"Did he rip them?" Aziraphale asks, somewhere between curious and accusing. "Did he rip them from your legs in his impatience? So far gone with lust that he couldn't help himself."

Crowley blinks slowly at him, the skin at the sides of his glasses tightens, something of a refusal in his mouth.

"Answer me," Aziraphale grates out.

Yes," Crowley says at last, with stiff reluctance.

The admission sets something seething in Aziraphale's stomach, something that feels not entirely part of the game, and rather more sharply affecting because of it. He sets his other hand on Crowley's waist and backs him into the wall.

"Did you flirt with the man? Did you tease him until he couldn't resist you? What am I asking, of course you did. You invited his attention didn't you, with your disgraceful behaviour."

"It's none of your concern how I behave," Crowley says tightly.

Aziraphale's hands drop to grip Crowley's skirt, roughly dragging it up his legs, ignoring his short huff and squirm of protest, though the demon makes no move to stop him. Not even when it hits mid-thigh and Aziraphale slips a hand between them, tugging them open.

The first thing his fingers find is the wet smear of come on Crowley's inner thighs, and higher, the messy, swollen warmth of his labia, where he's indecently naked under the skirt. The chauffeur's semen is still leaking copiously from him, still warm, and when Aziraphale presses testing fingers to the centre of his cunt he finds it stretched open, slick and hot. 

The evidence of Crowley's misbehaviour stings Aziraphale's pride. This flagrant desire to be abused by any brute who'll have him.

"You're soaking with filth. How many times did he come in you?" Aziraphale demands.

Crowley glares at him for asking, legs trying to close on his hand, smearing the chauffeur's slippery spend against his palm. Aziraphale gives his wrist a pointed squeeze.

"Just the once," Crowley bites out.

"How?"

Crowley's mouth thins, and Aziraphale digs fingers into his thigh.

" _Tell me._ "

"Over the desk in the study," Crowley hisses out, jaw working in hot anger. "He couldn't wait, once he felt how wet I was. He ripped my knickers pulling them down, called me a wicked tease and fingered me. Then he spread me and had me over the desk - ah, you're a bastard for asking me this."

Crowley's throat is flushed red and Aziraphale doesn't know if it's anger, arousal or shame. It seems terribly improper to take pleasure in it, but he does all the same. He makes it clear that he expects Crowley to finish his explanation, and his mouth twists in anger, but he obediently continues.

"I could barely take his cock at first, I was too tight for him but he kept pushing and _pushing_ , until he was buried in me. Then he grasped my hips and had me roughly, until I could do nothing but grip the edge of the desk and take it. The noises he pulled out of me, I'm surprised you didn't hear them, or the way he slapped my behind for them -"

Aziraphale uses his other hand to pin Crowley's wrist to the wall, harder than he means to. Sucking a breath at the brazen shamelessness of his confession.

"Enough, honestly, the sheer perversity that comes out of your mouth, woman." His fingers push in where Crowley is hot and messy, ignoring Crowley's gutted sound of surprised arousal. He pulls them out again, the glide almost too easy, as coated as they are with another man's come. He slides them back inside with a hiss of disgust, fingering Crowley roughly, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet house.

Crowley's breath shakes out of him.

"This is utterly _shameless_ behaviour, Ms. Ashtoreth."

"Shameless," Crowley agrees, body clenching down on Aziraphale's fingers.

Aziraphale pushes his skirt higher, until it reaches the top of Crowley's parted thighs, and then slips past it, over his narrow hips, rucks all the way to his waist, revealing his dark red pubic hair, and his wet, reddened vulva, stuffed tight with Aziraphale's fingers. A sight that leaves him cracking a sound of need and furious judgement.

"Wandering the house at night without your underwear, leaking a stranger's come. One would think you don't care who might happen upon you."

"Clearly you happened upon me," Crowley says primly, hips rocking helplessly into Aziraphale's hand. "And you've proven yourself nothing like a gentleman."

"You don't deserve a gentleman," Aziraphale hisses immediately. "Look at you, look at the obscene display you've made of yourself. Not even bothering to clean yourself after letting him spill inside you, clothes half-undone, lipstick smeared. I've half a mind to have you myself."

Crowley tips his head back. "I thought I was filthy, surely you think too highly of yourself to stoop to my level."

Aziraphale crowds him closer to the wall, one hand sliding round Crowley's waist, while the other pushes his skirt higher.

"Why shouldn't I take advantage of a pleasure every other man in this house has had." Aziraphale lifts Crowley's narrow leg by the back of his knee, and pins it to the wall, exposing him fully, where he's still messy with come and his own glistening arousal, clenching on nothing. Aziraphale tugs open his trousers with impatient, angry movements, before he can push them down at the front, draw his desperate, stiff cock from his underwear and press it hard against the wetness of Crowley's cunt. 

Sharp nails dig through Aziraphale's shirt when Crowley's hand clutches at him, strains briefly to try and push him off.

"Brute," Crowley accuses, but his hips are shifting to rub Aziraphale's cock through the slick mess between his legs.

"I doubt Brahms was any less gentle with you, the beast has stretched you out obscenely, but you seem to enjoy that, don't you, being used like some dirty, wicked thing." 

Crowley opens his mouth to retort, something ill-mannered and perverse most likely. Aziraphale spreads his labia with his thumbs, watches semen dribble out of him to smear the head of his cock. Before he pushes through it, forcing himself all the way inside Crowley's body. Until he's buried completely. Crowley gives a high, ragged moan, stiffening in a combination of protest and shocked arousal, even as Aziraphale draws back almost all the way, before roughly driving in again.

Crowley doesn't deserve the consideration of gentle lovemaking, doesn't deserve sweet words or soft caresses. Not if he's going to act in such a way, spreading his legs for anyone who takes his fancy. Aziraphale takes him exactly as he desires, exactly as he deserves, with hard, bruising thrusts into his well-used cunt. Which is making slick, obscene noises as he takes it, shameless, filthy sounds that speak of how wet Crowley is, how deeply he'd been filled by Brahms's ungentle lusts. His sensible shoe still dangles from one foot, swaying with every rough thrust, and Crowley is whining softly, one hand scrabbling at the wall, the other clenching in the material of Aziraphale's jacket.

"You are a greedy, shameless, insatiable woman, Ms. Ashtoreth," Aziraphale hisses, just to watch Crowley's mouth open, purple lipstick a messy smear across his mouth, eyes blown behind his glasses. "And your behaviour will see you punished accordingly."

"Is this punishment?" Crowley asks, with a breathless, moaning laugh. "Only this feels rather more like a reward for both of us, with how eagerly you're filling my cunt."

"I deserve something, I think, for not telling the whole household what you've been up to, how you've abused their good nature to sate your own lusts."

Aziraphale lifts his hand, pushes the tacky fingers that had previously been inside Crowley between the demon's narrow lips, rubs them against his tongue. Crowley garbles something protesting around them, and Aziraphale fucks into him harder. Until Crowley moans and closes his mouth around them, obediently sucks them clean, Aziraphale drags them free, smearing his lipstick down his chin.

The skirt shifts further upwards under Aziraphale's hand, and the blouse has come almost completely undone, exposing the straps and cup of Crowley's black, lacy bra, the slight swell of his breast just visible through the fabric. The lace is stretched and crooked, as if a large hand had jerked the cup down, touched Crowley's small breast, held it, squeezed it. It's an unbearable thought, Aziraphale lifts a hand and tears the lace open, leaving the reddened, flushed breast and it's pale pink jut of a nipple exposed. Crowley gasps a breath and swears through his teeth, cunt clenching down tight on Aziraphale's cock.

" _Aziraphale_."

"If you didn't want everyone to see, you shouldn't have flaunted yourself so obviously," Aziraphale tells him, lifting a hand to curve beneath that tattered line of bra, thumb gliding across his nipple.

Crowley doesn't seem to have the breath left for a comeback, body jolting hard against the wall on every thrust. The slickness of him tightening on every breath, the wet noises accusing and deliciously lewd. Every inch of his body Aziraphale's to take pleasure in.

"It would serve you right if I left you unsatisfied," Aziraphale pants.

He intends no such thing. But Crowley groans, whole body trembling.

"Or if I forced you to your knees and finished in your filthy mouth," Aziraphale adds, the thought of it suddenly too obscene not to share.

"Fuck." Crowley stiffens, cunt rippling and squeezing down on Aziraphale's cock as he moans his way through orgasm. Aziraphale's own takes him by surprise, the hot, clenching heat of Crowley's pleasure pushing him all the way over. Until he's pressing deep, pleasure visceral and sharp and all-consuming, pinning Crowley to the wall, and spilling hotly into his squirming body in long bursts, leaving him wet and messy with come, for the second time tonight.

Aziraphale ends up panting into Crowley's neck, pulling fingers through his less than neat curls, that have come half-unpinned. 

"Next time," Crowley breathes, into the curve of his ear. "Next time make me do that."

Aziraphale gives a quiet moan of helpless agreement. Crowley's cheek slides against his, then turns in, and his narrow, painted mouth is pressing warm and damp against Aziraphale's own, daring a kiss. They kiss less than they do anything else, but Aziraphale treasures every one of them.

Crowley steps back, shuffles his skirt down without cleaning himself up, and then buttons the blouse over his torn bra and his pale, exposed breast. Then he pats his hair into place, before lifting a narrow thumb and dragging lipstick from Aziraphale's lower lip. His skin is warm and it tastes like woodsmoke and whisky.

"I expect I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Fell."

"Do behave until then, Ms. Ashtoreth," Aziraphale manages, through an exceptionally dry throat.

Crowley smiles, as if he has no intention of doing any such thing. Aziraphale watches him gather his lost shoe and slip it on, before disappearing back through the door he'd came in.


End file.
